Maybe Tomorrow
by Kudatsuo-chan
Summary: A one-shot featuring my interpretation of Matsuda after the end of the Death Note series. Better than it sounds...I hope.


Hey it's Kudatsuo-chan again. Coming at you with something that isn't ITROTG. Gee…I wonder if this get me in trouble. Meh. Um…anyway, yeah this is a story about Matsu-tan after Light's death. I'd like to be way beyond cheesy real quick and dedicate this story to Bialy, for her words of encouragement, over the last couple of stories.

I know he's one of your favorites…so…enjoy? Oh and cause you inspired this version, with your "dark Matsuda" stories.

Disclaimer: I don't own Death Note…anyone surprised.

Warnings: Some heavy indications of suicide. If you're uncomfortable with this then *runs away*

**Maybe Tomorrow**

It was a sudden change, even though no one could pinpoint exactly when it began. No one who'd ever spent any time with Touta Matsuda would have recognized the man he'd become after the Kira incident. He'd become hard, driven and cold.

They'd been meeting for a while, a battered group of refugees. Survivors with wounded psyches, protecting those encircled within their ranks from the cold reality of the outside world. Nothing but somber silence and bitter, angry tears ever came from these meetings. But as time continued its inevitable march forward, they began to heal, all of them. Except for one man.

One day they'd all met, the entire group, except for Matsuda. They'd expected him to come stumbling in late, breathless, with some half-assed excuse about why he was late. But he didn't. The seconds ticked by, five minutes stretching into ten, then twenty. The door opened and Matsuda walked in, his gait steady and his shoulders squared, the cloying odor of cigarettes floating in after him. Ide looked at him and recoiled from the cold expression in Matsuda's eyes.

'_Like a void…' _Matsuda sat down in his usual spot and met their steady gaze, his expression completely impassive. He poured their drinks, drank with them, talked with them, and laughed with them. And no one really noticed that his smiles never really reached his eyes.

* * *

He was different at work. Harder. Meaner. In the initial months following the incident at the Yellow Box Warehouse, he'd sought refuge in his routine. He followed it blankly, like a robot. He'd go to work, fill out his reports, turn them in, practice at the firing range, and go home. His behavior, so drastically different from before actually frightened his few friends at the NPA. His friends who watched him through narrowed eyes, fearful of the way he reminded them of the one who'd betrayed them all. Light Yagami. The son of a friend, a brother-in-arms who fell from the light. The one in whom Matsuda saw everything he wasn't and everything he wanted to be.

_Suave._

_Cool._

_Brilliant._

_A perfect son for the chief._

* * *

He was different at home too. His cold façade dropped, and all he was able to see were his hands stained almost black with blood. No matter how many times he washed them, the blood ran down, from his fingertips down to his wrists. He would wash his hands until they cracked and bled. And even as his real blood dripped into the steaming hot water, he couldn't stop scrubbing.

_He would have been a murderer. He was a murderer. He will be a murderer._

The angry thoughts buzzed throughout his mind, stinging him if he allowed himself to dwell on them for to long. Something burned his eyes, a prickling sensation he hadn't felt for…a long time. He grabbed blindly for the revolver still in his holster. It was a ritual that he went through nearly every night. His hands trembled slightly as he turned the gun over, twisting it around in his hands. It took all of his strength sometimes to not take the gun, insert it into his mouth and pull the trigger.

It would be easy, too easy really. A simple act. Less than a second and he would never again have to feel the regret that he battled with daily. And he was so tired…

His grip tightened around the handgrip of the gun. His trembling got worse as he became more aware of the hard unforgiving texture of the metal. He brought it up to his temple, wincing slightly as it hit a bruised place on his skull. His finger gently moved towards the trigger.

A shrill phone shattered his concentration and he dropped the pistol guiltily. He jumped to grab the phone.

"Yeah…Hey Mogi…no…not doing anything." An extremely long pause. "…you and Ide want to come over? Sure…why not." As Matsuda hit the 'end call' button, he looked around the apartment. It was a mess. There was no way that Mogi and Ide weren't going to notice that something was up. As he started to clean up, he bent down and picked up the pistol. A wan smile ghosted over his face, warming his features slightly.

"Maybe tomorrow…"

* * *

Please R&R.

Bye.


End file.
